"This is mine," he said, pointing through the doorway on whose step he
sat. "And all these other houses belong to people whom I know. When they
come back here to live they have only to come to me and I can show them
which house to go to. Without me it might be difficult, but I was the
oldest man here and I know all the streets, and all the houses. I carry
the village in my head."
"That is your donkey cart, then?"
"It is my son's. I drive here from Rheims on Saturdays, when he doesn't
want it."
He showed his book, the cheap paper filled with already-fading maps,
blurred names and vague sketches. The old man was in his dotage and
would soon die and the book be lost.
"I carry the village in my head," he repeated. It was the only life the
village had.
So the days went on, day after day, and with each its work, and still no
letter at the "Silver Lion," Though vaguely ashamed at her mood, she
could not be oppressed by this. Each cold, fine, blooming day in the
mountains made him less necessary to her, and only the delicate memory
of him remained to gild the town. When hopes wither other hopes spring
up. When the touch of charm trembles no more upon the heart it can no
longer be imagined.
CHAPTER XIX
PHILIPPE'S MOTHER
The horn of a two days' moon was driving across the window; then stars,
darkness, dawn and sunrise painted the open square; till rustling, and
turning towards the light, she awoke.
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